FOUR ENCOUNTERS OF THE UNKIND

James Quentin Devine m.v.d. · 💙

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snk neo geo style 8-bit rendering of a grim scene of beachwood canyon in los angeles at night with coyotes circling in the distance and a lone wandering figure in dark clothing

I. Gone Out (In the Manner of All Lights)

            Dead glamour in a city on the fritz.
            .
            Twisted sidewalks.
            Tempting trips.
            .
            Living outside.
            Living within.
            .
            Hello neighbor.
            Take me for a spin.
        

II. Metro Bus Line 2 (Stroker on "The Two")

I guess I'm just going to ignore you.

Jerking off, in a rolling office chair.

Cracked black pleather.

Public self-pleasure.

I don't know how you got here.

Or the chair there.

How?

How did the chair get onto the bus?

Did you lift it up and in?

Were you helped?

Seated.

Front of the bus, beating your meat.

Sat.

Double-fisted beneath ragged sweatpants.

Slippery, slidery.

Casters jostling.

Dick jacking.

I suppose the driver's ignoring you, too.

We could have nice things.

We won't.

Oh, you.

You'd be a fool not to want more ↓

III. Hillhurst Houndsley

            Near-miss with a car.
            Engine roar.
            Dead-eyed stare.
            Played matador.
            .
            Ducking, dodging.
            Seeking refuge under awnings.
            Sun's rays and standards lower.
            Sun-seared and creeping cover.
            Bow infernal tower.
            .
            Head low.
            Salute submission.
            Honor the heat in glowing sweatgloss.
            .
            A power user on a grid grind.
            The sky an open screen.
            Sun beating.
            Panting hound on a corded lead.
            .
            Nerves end at feelingless feet.
            Fucked running.
            Nerfed standing.
            Unkindling.
            Sticks stuck.
            Figures.
            .
            Sun, sun.
            .
            And you're stoned, writing a song.
            Singing.
            Notes to self.
            Recording a voice memo.
            Messages to sell.
            As ever.
            .
            Tour allure.
            Tour Allah.
        

WHEN → A girl in a coral flower-print cinched bra-top and jean shorts, proper seaside, comes running up behind you, taps a shoulder: "There's a guy over there and he's attacking people!"

Dearie-me.

Slow swivel in the haze.

"Where is he?"

A point.

"That guy!"

Lock in on the target.

A familiar face.

And filthy.

No idea his name.

Caked with shit and disgrace.

Bad News is his name. Drug Use is his name. Fuck You is his name. Announced with fists wordless.

Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this.

He's punching at three people, could have been four?

Unreliable witnesses don't keep good score.

"Oh, yeah, that guy."

Clocked him the first time I saw him.

"He's been around . . ."

I trail.

Tone cold.

What do you want me to do, sister?

"Something" about "it?"

Fuck that, fuck that, fuck that.

I'd known he was a bomb.

On-sight, first time.

Throws fits in the street.

Breaks shit, screams.

Jabs accusatory fingers.

Bellowboxes god when he's up.

Lays low lateral side-slump in streaked remains of his own shit when he's down.

Litter, litter, litter.

Trash everywhere.

Not no mind for nothing.

And there's that urge to identify, to sympathize.

To extend.

And then . . .

Then!

The reality of vigilance, and of vengeance.

And its extent.

The unperson, depersonalized, lashes out.

There are — of course! — the sad-and-down.

"Alms for the poor."

AND THEN: The demon army.

Ready for war.

Ill, sick in the head¹ or otherwise, preferences neither in alignment or resolution with or within society.

Those who exist outside it all, those who are members of competing civilizations.

Irreconcilable.

Call them bums, vagrants, shitbirds, oogles.

Crust kids, try-hards, try-outs, tricks, burn-outs.

Call 'em all kinds of shit.

Fact is:
Anti-social and helpless is a hell of a thing.

"Well, hope everyone's alright."

She seems aghast at the flat-casual.

But I'm not the one.

I am neither brother's keeper nor captor.

It's some other sweeper you're after.

Hostile, untouchable.

A shitter of streets and doorways.

A jack-off guy.

We lack the means for banishment, though we've no shortage for candidates.

Who are you to volunteer me as vigilante?

So I let it alone.

And set on my way.

The dog needs his walk.

The girl follows.

A collective shrug.

Get it on someone else ↓

IV. Paradox City

He looks like Jesus.

Not that I don't.

Maybe we all do.

He's nude, fully.

Crouched behind the fence of an elementary school.

It's midnight, or round.

I'm ambling the canyon with no mind.

Going up.

I'll come back with less.

3 AM. Coming down.

The nude's still there.

Now draped loosely in what appears to be a carpet remnant.

A poor cover for absent shame.

Don't blink.

No-sell.

Any reaction's a provocation.

"H-h-hey man,"

He says, approaching.

And we're off.

"I wasn't sure if you told me to wait here for you . . ."

I had not.

We talked.

We trade names.

"James . . . James What?"

A sinister air.

"Devine."

"DeVaughn?"

And I think of gangster white-walls, TV antenna in the back.

Thankful for all I have.

"Devine."

I point to the sky.

He understands me, confirming:

"Devine . . ."

He's Gary, apparently.

"You live around here?"

"I'm homeless . . ."

"Yeah, but you know what I mean — you stay around here?"

Tells me a nearby parking lot's the rest stop for his nighttime wanderings.

Poses a question:

"Is . . . Is Axl Rose your father?"

A polite denial.

"Oh . . . Yeah . . . I remember now . . . I met you when you were a kid."

Sure you did.

"Could be!"

"I remember your mother now . . ."

And I should really be going.

So it's well-wishes of safety and "I'm sure I'll see you again." and I'm sure I will, because I'd seen him before, though we'd never met outside the confines of his imagining at my childhood.

Off I go on down the road and it's not five minutes til a darker encounter.

Forever clocking shadows in the distance for menace in the silhouette.

Hadn't liked this one — knew better! — but I didn't feel like crossing the street.

Probably should have.

Tweaker tweaking.

Chewing face, eyes bulging.

Three-foot, four-foot length of metal pipe?

Unreliable witnesses stumble the night.

I can recall its exact sharpness.

The hand-hewn jailhouse quality of the object.

He made sure that I got a good look at his gear.

Raise and a rattle.

Here, here.

I made sure that he understood not to try.

That I operate under a spell of protection.

That I am a hologram from another world.

A floating figment, hallucinatory.

Unpuncturable, impenetrable.

Unbeatable.

Indefatigable.

Oh, me.

Power user of the city.

Miles a day.

I've got to get the fuck out of L.A. Miles away. I've got to get the fuck out of L.A.

Marks are made.

I am nothing other than. Don't come for me.

JQD  ·  m.v.d.

💙

✦ Beachwood Canyon · Los Angeles · Sep 2024.